


A Thing That Lives on Tears

by 13thDoctor



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Chaptered, Extended Metaphors, Horror, M/M, Metaphors, Season Finale, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 12:09:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1687817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13thDoctor/pseuds/13thDoctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 times Will almost tells Hannibal that he loves him, and the 1 time that he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Un

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a quote in Thomas Harris' The Silence of the Lambs. MAJOR spoilers for the Hannibal finale.

The fire danced off their faces in sporadic shadows of dizzy light and illusion, each flame an illumination or obstruction of their features. Will watched as the warm colors contoured his therapist’s body, fading him in and out of the fabricated reality into which they were inextricably woven.

Hannibal sat at his desk, pencil in hand as he sketched his latest masterpiece. His long, elegant fingers curled around the stem of his wine glass in a gentle throttle. Will closed his eyes and the image of those slender hands on his own throat painted the eyelids’ blank canvas. Each scratch of the lead was a scratch of blunt fingernails on his paper-white skin. Shivering, he pried them open, afraid their contents could somehow present themselves to Hannibal. He sighed, an expulsion of pleasure carefully disguised as boredom.

Frowning, the older man set the glass down after consuming its blood-red offering. “Do you no longer desire my company, Will?” he inquired, fixing his gaze on his patient.

Will laughed, echoing and dry. The office chuckled darkly back at him.

Solemnly, Hannibal lined his materials and stood, smoothing and buttoning his immaculate suit jacket in one fluid motion. He walked patiently over to Will, who stood a few feet away, lost in thought.

Their session has expired hours before, but the therapist had insisted on a companion for dinner. To pass the time between the two events, they enjoyed an expensive bottle of wine in Hannibal’s office, but Will seemed oddly fascinated by Hannibal’s library that night. He never strayed far from the books, which meant never straying close to his doctor. This demeanor was unsettling and unwelcome to Hannibal.

“Your wish seems to me to be the removal of my presence, or your dismissal from me. Either way, I must express my offense.”

“Your lack of psychiatric ability astounds me, Doctor,” Will criticized him, but the insult was hollow. His eyes had read the golden lettering of a foreign title more times than he could recall.

“I consider myself an excellent interpreter of the mind’s many languages. I pride myself in my fluency.”

He approached Will from behind, quiet and graceful. They both turned to stare at the fire as they spoke, as if its heat could bring them solace and courage.

“However,” he continued, “The riddles and movements of your fascinating tongue give me no small challenge. I delight in deciphering them, but they take time.”

A hand found his chin. Hannibal’s finger rubbed an easy circle on Will’s arid lips, and his breath caught. The doctor smirked, reveling in the effect he produced.

Like livestock cornered by a wolf, Will stood absolutely still. His mouth trembled beneath Hannibal’s touch, though they both knew it was not a reaction of fear. Then, as suddenly as the hand had arrived, it departed, shattering the stained glass on which the moment had been etched.

His psychiatrist moved away, and a bucket of ice descended upon Will. He exhaled quickly and stumbled backwards, the wine glass almost slipping from his hand. Hannibal returned to him immediately.

“What is the matter, Will?” he asked. His face held not a shred of concern; only intrigue could be found. It was his true nature, one he had every intention of sharing with Will. He licked his lips, his inquiry hanging heavy in the space around them.

The patient loosened his words carefully from his mouth, afraid of their ability to escape from him. Coldly, he growled, “I believe you to be… an impractical cure for my insanity. Like chemotherapy.”

“How so?” Hannibal wondered, bemused. He could not contain his delight at the comparison.

“You’re killing me even as you heal me,” he answered bluntly, the words rushing from his psyche, stumbling to catch his voice before it left him. He twisted his neck, cracking the frail bones and struggling to collect his fragmented thoughts. “But because I am dependent on you to live, and you on me to survive, be free… I let you because I l—”

He covered his face with his hands, a small hiss expelling from his lungs. He dug his palms into his eyes, and then ran them rapidly across his face as if the friction could set him ablaze and make him forget his predicament.

Hannibal paced back to his workspace, Will abandoned by the fireside at which they had joined. Gradually, he replaced each drawing utensil into its case. The office was silent save for their gently deposit. Will flinched at every intrusion into his peace, each clink a reminder of fantasies of teeth knocking together.

Finally, an accent purred from behind him, and his ears jumped eagerly, hanging onto every mesmerizing sentence. “If you still wish, my table is always open. Will you join me?” The invitation was sincere, optimistic. Hannibal’s smile was a shade too voracious to be friendly.

Will unraveled from his catatonic state, mustering up the strength to become a guest at the killer’s feast. He met Hannibal’s gaze, eyes dark between long lashes, challenging and submitting simultaneously.

Silently, the lamb nodded assent to the wolf. The incisors flashed in a toothy grin as the wolf extended its paw, expecting likewise from his companion. The lamb turned and carefully felt the knife beneath its wool before accepting the invitation.

And so, the lamb loved the wolf, but its claws prevented the admission.


	2. Deux

He came to visit him before the week was out. The cat wanted to see its prey struggling in the mousetrap. Dangle the key and smile like a killer. Give the cameras the extreme dichotomy of the sublime, suited psychopath against the slovenly, suffering victim, and give them no indication that the wrong man was fading into the grey stone of that cell.

The metallic whine of a buzzer sounded, allowing the psychiatrist access to the block. Complacently and calmly, he walked through years of mental decay and failure until he found his friend. The patients lining the row jeered at their visitor, but his mind was with Will already, smirking as he imagined his presence was already registered.

Will leaned against the cold metal bars, his face becoming a permanent presence against the hard cylinders. His words formed around them— _Hello, Doctor Lecter._ The breath hissed from his lungs and his mouth spit them out, both repulsed and delighted to murmur the phrases in the dark prison.

The attack began softly at first; piano volume lyrics that could not be heard. Then, his tempo increased, and he rose to a crescendo of insults and accusations. Dr. Lecter knew these words; their repetition was monotonous and boring. Will’s song was already memorized, and he ached for a new one. So he stood, calculating, waiting patiently behind a red line that read _do not cross._ The demand amused him; not one person in the hospital was as dangerous, intelligent, or interesting as he and Will, and he was unafraid of both.

“Sometimes I miss you.”

Hannibal stopped exploring his face and focused on his eyes, adoring how he made Will squirm. The younger man refused to meet the gaze, unrivaled fury burning behind his dilated pupils. Desperately, he tried to return the stare, but the unflinching, unfeeling blankness directed at him was far too powerful overcome. Snarling, he looked away and sucked his teeth, quelling the violent urges within him, saving them for when his freedom came.

“Do continue,” the accent hummed, knowing that Will could not resist the challenge.

“Isn’t that wrong?” The usual stutter pronounced itself in his speech, even more prominent when stitched with the despair of incarceration. It was also tinged with arousal, but neither man acknowledged it beyond a short hitch in Will’s breath and a clenching of Hannibal’s jaw.

“You may be asking the wrong man, Will.” He folded his jacket over his arm and sat in the provided chair, legs crossed elegantly as he listened. He sat as straight and still as wrought iron tower, cold and sharp and breathtaking.

The patient scoffed. “It _is_ wrong,” he continued rapidly, “when considering what you done to me, that I still—” He absorbed back the thought and choked on it.

Hannibal stood. He stepped forward fluidly, his face mere inches from Will’s as they spoke. The alarm sounded and guards shouted, but the pair was oblivious. Hannibal could have kissed him, or bit him, from there. Either option was tantalizing, and fodder for later, lonely activities.

“You, you do this to me.” He swallowed, jaw clenched tightly. “I’m the fly that’s trapped in your web, but you keep telling me, _insisting,_ that I’m the spider.”

They locked eyes between the bars, equally frigid. Will grasped Hannibal’s shirt collar, and the two men breathed each other in, eyes closed in toxic ecstasy. He dug his nails into his doctor’s clavicle, drawing blood. Hannibal gasped but did not pull away. Instead, his eyelids fluttered open, full of unadulterated lust. He opened his mouth to speak, to catalyze more words from that terrible tongue, but was interrupted by pounding footsteps, a macro-beat to the insistent, allegro micro-beat of his heart.

The guards rushed over and ripped Hannibal from Will, wrenched apart the chord connecting their souls in one violent action. A punch was delivered to his face, hard and hasty, sending him sprawled onto the rank floor. His last image was Hannibal, breathing erratic as he reached for Will.

Perhaps it was not so bad to be the spider.


	3. Trois

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kudos! I also love when you leave comments, *not so subtle hint*! Please continue to read and enjoy!

The clock struck six—a deep, sonorous song, a siren’s wail—and Will stood, feeling awkward and exposed in his crisp clothes but hiding his discomfort well. The chair gathered its shape back with his absence, and he envied how such a simple object could have more serenity than he. That it could put itself back together without help and without hindrance.

Footsteps sounded in the office and he turned toward the door. It clicked open and Hannibal appeared, whose apertures moved in habitual dignity. The doctor’s eyes lit when he saw Will and he swung the door open fully, clearly approving of the view. Will immediately drew a comparison to a prospective mate admiring the flourishing, desperate dance of its attractor.

“You have emerged from your chrysalis,” he remarked fondly. “The rugged caterpillar has transformed into a handsome butterfly.”

Will chuckled. “Should I be insulted?” he asked, plastering on a flirtatious smile. His stomach tumbled and he flinched. He could no longer discern the difference between fear and arousal in his psychiatrist’s presence.

Hannibal stepped away from the doorframe and allowed Will to enter. He inhaled his scent as he passed—clean, sharp, distinct, and still reeking with that unfortunate aftershave. Wrinkling his nose, he closed the door and quietly locked it. Will’s eyes darted to find another path of escape when he heard the click. Again came the ill-fated inability to separate being terrified or turned on.

Lips in a tight smile and hands locked in a formal gesture of peace, Hannibal turned to Will. The empath had halted in the center of the office, seemingly overcome by its unchanged ambiance. “Will,” he whispered. Drawn to the sound like a moth to a flame, the patient rotated.

They finally faced each other. Will shifted uncomfortably before taking his usual chair. He blinked at Doctor Lecter, a veil of black lashes sweeping across his pale cheeks, charred leaves in the snow. His face was sallow, jaded, just as it had been at the hospital. In his eyes he held no forgiveness. They were black with bloodlust, righteousness, and punishment.

“You kept my appointment. Why?”

Hannibal cleared his throat and sat opposite the other man.

“When you told me that you still miss me, it occurred to me that I share that feeling. It was an obligation to my heart not to allow you to fade away, so the decision seemed logical.”

“Your _heart_?” Will’s mouth formed uneasily around the word; the bitter taste was not palatable. He emphasized it, sneered it, punctuating each conflicting emotion that the thought caused him.

Hannibal stood and removed his suit jacket. The sleeves rippled over his shoulders like black wings as he did so, neatly folding it on the chair when he was done. Will had never seen him act so casually in one of their sessions.

“What’s the occasion?” he asked, knowing he would not need to clarify.

“We are celebrating your return today. I insist that you relax, as well, though I do appreciate the new wardrobe.” He smiled. “I am overjoyed by your return.” He poured them a glass each of deep red wine and carefully carried them over, swirling the contents as he walked. Will’s gaze never left the liquid; he didn’t trust himself to look anywhere else.

When Hannibal handed the glass to Will, his fingers lingered, and the other man winced. Hannibal’s eyes flickered over his face and he remained by his side, poised like a well-dressed vulture on the corner of the leather seat.

“Do you fear me, Will?” He looked as if an affirmative might please him.

“I sent someone to kill you.”

“So you believe I will retaliate in kind? I am not a petty man.” He paced away, disappointed. As he sat, he smelled the wine, and his expression conveyed his satisfaction. He dipped it back, a scarlet river over his teeth. Will watched his throat as he drank. He imagined cutting it open slowly, a deep, horizontal gash. The wine and blood would mix in perfect harmony. He almost moaned as he pictured his lips meeting the wound, drinking the delicacy as Hannibal’s life ebbed away.

“I don’t think you’re petty, Doctor, just practical.” He escaped his vivid imagination.

“Would it be practical to kill you?”

Will did not feel inclined to answer truthfully. “No, it would not. I don’t think it ever would be. Wolves function better in packs than on their own.”

_A lone wolf doesn’t have to share the meat. He savors the kill. He is responsible for none but himself, and that he prefers._

“We hardly constitute a pack,” Hannibal observed lightly. He folded his fingers together, claws retracted for the time being.

“No, we’re both too independent for that,” he murmured, somewhat shyly. “You have what I lack in social skills, but you prefer solitude, despite your _cravings_ for a crowd.”

His incisors flashed when he chuckled. “Insightful, Will. I thought I was your therapist.”

Will laughed, and it occurred to him that he had perhaps gone too far with his prying and teasing. Despite the Doctor’s plea for friendship, the tension and danger floated tangibly in the room. It was as if they had been stuffed inside with pure oxygen, and each man was goading the other to light the match. And yet, they would continue to play this game as both adversaries and partners, this endless cycle. They would become one another’s dance partner even with countless other options. They were drawn to the other as a fish is lured to a hook—knowing its cunning trick, not even hungry, but endlessly consumed with unspeakable desire for its prey and tragic fate. They die together.

Will almost said it aloud, almost let the words run to where he could not capture them again. They both knew what the words meant, no matter what language in which they were spoken. No matter that it was a subtle shift in Hannibal’s posture, Will bearing his throat, their eyes devouring one another across the few feet between them. They would always find and need and dread their other half.

Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham would always love each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this story is getting progressively more depressing and dark. From this point on, strong caution is advised for those not caught up on the season, especially the finale.


End file.
